


london calling to the underworld

by restless5oul



Series: yesterday we were just children [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF, GP2 Series RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Gen, Mentions of Death, Violence, brief blood and gore, everyone is sad, like a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:45:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11693877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restless5oul/pseuds/restless5oul
Summary: "this is the way the world ends.not with a bang but a whimper."





	london calling to the underworld

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, another AU what a surprise! I've split this one into a series however, rather than a continuous fic because then I don't have to focus on the same characters in every fic, and I can have a bit more freedom with the timeline.  
> It's a bit depressing, not gonna lie, and hella long, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

“Run Charles!”

He hadn’t hesitated for a moment when he heard his brother yell that, the fear so evident in his tone, a sound Charles had never heard come from his brother’s mouth. Holding onto the hockey stick  in the tight grip of his sweaty palm, he wasted no time in clumsily hauling himself out of the open window at the end of the hall and onto the fire escape. His haste and panic making him uncoordinated as he stumbled onto the shaky metal steps.

There was a bloodcurdling scream from the room behind him and he wavered, his brother’s words still echoing in his ears. He was sure the voice wasn’t Pierre’s. But the thought of who, or what, that voice belonged to terrified him even more. There was something distinctly inhuman about the noise.

Torn between the desire to go back, to find his brother, but knowing he would kill him if he did, Charles did as his brother had ordered. He ran. Knowing this had been the plan, that if there was a single sign that they weren’t alone, then they had to get out of the building and as far away from their home as possible.

Clattering down the rickety stairs, Charles knew he was making too much noise, but that didn’t stop him from powering on, his heart and feet pounding. Another scream, more guttural, more ferocious this time, that didn’t stop him either. Even when he hit the concrete pavement, stumbling at the force of the contact, dropping the stick, his hands grazing against the rough ground, he didn’t stop moving. He picked the stick back up and ran.

He knew instinctively which direction to go in. Stoffel’s house was a mile or so from Charles and Pierre’s apartment, but it his brother’s boyfriend’s home was a meeting point they knew they could find. They didn’t know if the Belgian was there. They didn’t even know if he was alive. Their only hope was that the building hadn’t been overrun. Charles would sit tight and wait for his brother. Pierre would follow. He had to.

Arms pumping as hard as his pulse, Charles ran down their deserted street, past the abandoned cars, trying his hardest to ignore the dried pools of blood that still stained parts of the tarmac, trying not to think about what hid behind the curtains of the houses that he was racing past. Trying not to entertain the idea that his neighbours, people whose names he didn’t know, but whom he had grown up seeing on an almost daily basis, might be dead, or worse. 

Rounding the corner his heart leapt in anxiety, dreading the thought that the once busy main road might not be empty, that there might be something there waiting for him. But there were only more cars, strewn across the road, some of the bodywork missing, some even ominously smoking, like not so long ago the road hadn’t been so empty.

Half way down the long road he made to go left, down a side street that ran parallel to a tower block, knowing it would be safer to keep off the main roads, but he pulled up short, stopping in his tracks when he saw that he was no longer alone. Crouching by the wall, someone was kneeling next to a body – though Charles had never seen a corpse before, he knew it from the grey colour of the skin and the too-still way it lay there. The person was leaning over the body, hands braced on their torso, spine curled at what seemed to be an impossible angle, the bumps of the vertebrae visible even through the jacket he wore. They were shaking slightly, so tense they seemed to be almost vibrating, and for one mad second Charles thought they were crying. That was until they turned around. 

The skin of their face was mottled, half scabbed over, parts of it flaking away, blood streaming from their mouth and down their chin, like they couldn’t feel it dripping onto their bare chest. Sections of flesh and bone were on display where the skin had worn away completely, the edges coloured with purples and greens, like they were decomposing right in front of him. Rows of blackened teeth where on show where their mouth was bared, even from a distance it was possible to make out the blood and tissue that clung there. But it was the eyes that gave it away. The irises were glazed over, a white film covering the entire eyeball, the pupils blown wide, darting everywhere, a crazed expression taking over his face as he stared right at Charles, the half eaten body behind him forgotten completely.

Any hope he had of a stealthy exit was dashed, Charles felt suffocated by panic, paralysed as he watched the person – no he couldn’t call them a person anymore – the creature, get to its feet, his joints cracking as he rose, his limbs popping in and out of place as he stretched to his full height. There was a gargling sound from the back of its throat, as he took a lurching step towards Charles, then another, and another. He could feel his hands trembling wildly, a scream of terror working its way up his throat, the only reaction his body seemed to be able to manage.

Only when it was a few feet away did his fight or flight response kick in, and he turned, almost tripping over his own feet as his brain scrambled for somewhere, anywhere, he could go to get away. Sprinting even faster than he had been before, he looked left and right, praying for an open door, a clear alleyway, an escape route. As his aching legs carried him past a deserted supermarket, the windows smashed in, the sign hanging over the doorway, swinging gently, and bizarrely the automatic doors opened, triggered by Charles as he ran past, so he darted inside, hoping the aisles and shelves would offer shelter, somewhere to hide. 

He didn’t look back to see if he’d been followed inside, running the length of the shop, which was smaller than it had looked from the outside. His footsteps seemed louder, smacking against the still shining floor, the sound of his heavy breathing filling the almost too quiet space around him. He slowed to a jog and almost immediately wished he hadn’t. The terrible sound, half screaming, half roaring, caught his attention, and he saw it had followed him inside and was charging towards him with an impressive pace, its wasting limbs flailing wildly, spit flying from its mouth, in pursuit of the rushing blood flowing in his veins, the beating heart hammering against his ribcage, the muscles that were jumping in his legs as his mind wills his body to move. In pursuit of Charles.

He dived down one aisle without looking, tangling with the empty boxes and containers that bring him down to the floor, his knees and elbows throbbing as he wastes no time in scrambling to his feet again. He turned right, then left, then left again, all the while aware that he was running out of space, and he was being hunted down by something that wouldn’t stop until it go what it wanted. It was that thought that gave Charles the bravery he needed to turn, planting his feet, raising his arm and waiting. For one second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four…

Then it appeared round the corner and he swung with all the strength his tired arms could muster. The old hockey stick hit it square in the jaw with a sickening thud and a crunch as his head is snapped off its axis, the soft and brittle bones of its neck broken.

Charles thought he could breathe, thought he could relax, before he heard a growl behind him, and turned just in time to see another, and lurched sideways, out of reach of the outstretched arm, the decaying hand that was scrambling to claw at his skin. He only made it as far as the shelves to his right, the contact knocking him to the ground and the old hockey stick out of his hand. The clattering as tins and jars fell from the shelves, some smashing as they hit the ground, seemed to confuse it for a moment, its head moving rapidly, distracted by the cacophony of noise. It was enough time for Charles scramble to the left, trying to pull himself to his feet.

There was a tug on his ankle, so harsh he was sent to the floor again, accidentally biting down on his tongue as his chin hit the unyielding floor, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. He struggled furiously, knowing what could happen to him if he got too close, if he let the monster sink his teeth into his skin, if he didn’t kill him first. Kicking out, he fought his way out of its grip, and just as the creature flung himself at him a gun shot rang out, and silence fell.

A perfect head shot had blown a hole all the way through its skull as its twice-dead body landed beside Charles with a dull thud. He stared at it in horror, oblivious to the figure approaching him from the end of the aisle. All he could see was the manic look still present in its eyes, the sight sending a wave of nausea through his body. His pulse still hadn’t slowed, the adrenaline still pumping as his mind struggled to comprehend how close that had been. 

“Come on, you need to get up,” a voice above Charles said, and before he could get a look at whoever had fired that shot and saved him, a rough hand grabbed his upper arm and, with some difficulty pulled him to his feet. He wanted to protest that the hand was gripping at a fresh bruise, but he didn’t seem to have found his voice yet, the shock still washing over him.

Once he was on his feet he saw that his saviour was a boy who couldn’t have been much older than him, a few inches shorter, with a shock of blond hair and a shotgun slung over his shoulder. He wore a grim expression on his face, which made him look a lot older than he probably was. Holding Charles in his hard gaze he spoke with urgency;

“We need to get out of here.”

Coming out of his trauma induced trance, Charles realised that in the distance there were the sounds of more terrible screaming, too many different voices to count, it wasn’t far enough away to make him feel safe. As the shock wore off the pain hit him. Not just from where his shoulder had hit the shelves, but his knees and elbows too, and his mouth, where he was sure he had burst open his lip. He tried to wipe his chin, where he could feel the dried blood clinging to his skin, but found that his hands were shaking too badly for him to have any kind of control. 

“Come on,” he repeated, pulling at Charles’ arm again, trying to get him to move. Only the sound of smashing glass, followed by the unmistakable sound of feet thundering on the ground as they ran, startled him into action. From the sound alone, it was impossible to tell how many were piling into the supermarket, it could have been three, it could have been ten, it could have bene fifty. Charles didn’t want to stick around to find out.

Not daring to look back, he followed the blond boy, ignoring his aching limbs, and his lungs that screamed for him to slow down for a moment, to let him catch his breath, and ease the pain i his chest that was now throbbing with each heartbeat.

They sprinted up the length of the aisle, through a large set of double doors, and out of what appeared to be the old loading bay. But Charles didn’t feel any safer out on the street, despite the false sense of security he had been lulled into earlier when he had felt like the only person alive out there. He supposed in some ways that was true. But it didn’t mean that he was alone. The month spent locked away inside, with only his brother and the unhelpful government radio broadcasts to tell him anything at all, hadn’t done him any good. He had no idea what the outside world held anymore.

Maybe it was that fear, of being left to fend for himself in a city that had transformed into a place he didn’t recognise anymore, even though he had called it home for most of his life, it was that fear that made him blindly follow this boy. Because he was the only person, and he seemed to have some idea of how they were supposed to live, to survive, in this strange new world. But he felt his stomach lurch with guilt when he thought of his brother.

His brother he should be on his way to Stoffel’s, maybe he was already there, waiting for Charles, driving himself sick with worry about where his younger brother was. But there was also a chance he had never made it. Charles refused to believe, or even entertain that thought, pushing it from his mind as he saw the boy he was following glance over his shoulder, making sure he was following.

He didn’t know how long they ran for, he didn’t know if they were being followed the whole way, he only really became aware of something other than the robotic, repetitive motion of moving his arms and legs when the boy led him round the back of a grand building. The plaque on the wall by the door, and the sign which had been knocked to the ground, telling him that it was a hotel. They travelled all the way up the side of a building, the tiny alleyway reminding him of the shortcut he had tried to take, making his mind convinced that something was lurking just out of sight, waiting to pounce. Nothing materialised, not as he watched the boy push a large bin out of the way, Charles standing uselessly by the side as he revealed a small window at ankle height, once which he pushed open, motioning for Charles to follow him.

He hesitated, unsure whether he really ought to follow. This boy had said barely ten words to him, and he was about to follow him into an abandoned hotel. His mind was still lingering on Pierre, wanting to believe that he was keeping him waiting.

“Come on,” he repeated, motioning with his hand again, more vigorously this time. Charles obliged, following him feet first through the tiny window, his shoulders almost getting stuck on the way in.

The room inside was dark, the only light coming through the small window, as his eyes adjusted Charles could vaguely make out shapes of fridges, and empty shelves, he guessed that it had been a pantry, or some part of a kitchen at some point. Still breathing hard, Charles realised he had been left alone in the middle of the room, the boy moving on ahead of him, calling out; 

“Juan!’ he shouted, obviously trying to get his attention. As he disappeared from view Charles followed him. They eventually made their way into a large, airy room, curtains drawn over the huge windows, a series of lamps illuminating the dim room, all crowded together in the middle of the room. It was bright enough to make out a cluster of chairs and sofas that had clearly been pushed together, blankets and pillows strewn across them. There were several desks, some piled high with books and other seemingly miscellaneous objects, and a large dining table, only a few chairs still around it, the boy placed the shotgun he was still carrying down. Whoever it was the boy was looking for was not in the empty room.

“Did you-?” the boy started to speak, turning round, clearly aware that Charles had followed him, before he cut across himself, “Hey!”

It was a shout of warning but Charles had no time to react before he felt a hand fisted in the back of his jumper, pulling him backwards until another hand slammed him against the wall behind him. For one horrifying moment he thought they had been followed, and he felt his blood run cold as he prepared to fight off whatever creature had caught him in his grip. But one look told him that it was no monster that was pinning him against the wall, but another boy, and despite the fierce look in his dark eyes, he could see that he was just as young as Charles.

“Who are you?!” he shouted into Charles’ face, a surprising amount of venom in his voice as he pressed his arm across Charles’ chest, holding him down.

“Juan calm down, it’s fine!” the boy shouted, approaching, looking irritated with his friend.

“Did you know he followed you in here Mick?” Juan’s voice didn’t lower in volume, nor did his tone soften. He didn’t even turn to look at the blond haired boy – Mick – he just kept glaring at Charles, pressing against him harder.

“Yes! I let him in!” Mick protested, placing a hand on Juan’s shoulder which he shrugged off. Charles tried once more to throw the boy off him, but they seemed evenly matched in terms of physique and he could only do as well as relieving the pressure on his chest momentarily.

“Why the fuck would you do that?! Look at him, he could be infected.” 

Charles could only assume that he was referring to the less than pristine state of his face and clothing, but having seen those undead creatures up close, he was fairly certain he wasn’t that far gone.

“He’s not!” Mick argued immediately, though Charles didn’t know how he could be so sure. While he knew he hadn’t been bitten – the one useful titbit of information he had picked up from the radio broadcast – but Mick didn’t know that. Unless he was missing something.

“Just let him go Juan.”

There was a moment where Charles thought he was going to ignore the smaller boy, but he dropped his arm, still standing close enough to make him feel intimidated, but not outright threatening him.

“Where’s Jüri?” Juan asked suddenly, whipping his head round to look at Mick, still sounding on edge, “You were supposed to be together.”

“We got separated. He got out of the supermarket before I found him,” he nodded towards Charles, “He’ll be on his way back, don’t worry.” 

As if on cue there was a commotion from the doorway to their left, and a few seconds later another boy appeared. He carried with him a large rucksack, his own blond hair looking ruffled, standing up like it couldn’t decide which direction to face. He too seemed to be out of breath, and there was an obvious look of relief on his face when he saw Mick.

“Oh thank god, I thought I’d lost you to the zombie hordes in Sainsbury’s,” he dropped the rucksack on the floor, his attention now turning to Juan and Charles. 

“Who are you?” he asked, his tone cautious, but nowhere near as hostile as the welcome he had just received. Charles opened his mouth to speak, but Juan cut across him.

“Some stray Mick picked up.” 

“He was in the supermarket too, I got him out, I brought him back here because I wasn’t about to leave him alone out there,” Mick corrected Juan. Charles wasn’t sure how much he liked being talked about as though he wasn’t there, but if he was honest, his mind wasn’t entirely in the room at that moment. The mention of the supermarket brought back the all too recent memory of the decaying shell of a human that had lunged at him, not a drop of mercy in its gaze, and that gut wrenching scream that had been torn from the back of its throat when the bullet from Mick’s gun had made its home in its skull. He hated his brain for bombarding him with the thought of Pierre, trying to fend off any number of those creatures – zombies had the boys called them? – only the largest knife from the kitchen drawer in his hand to protect him.

The conversation had carried on around him, and Charles really that he had just been addressed, three pairs of eyes now staring at him, waiting for his answer to the question he had missed. 

“ _P-pardon?_ ” he said, his native French slipping out as he cringed at the meek, quavering sound of his voice, “Sorry, I wasn’t...”

“I just asked if you’d like to get cleaned up, I can show you where the bathroom is. I’m sure one of Juan’s t-shirts will fit you,” Mick said, his eyes narrowed, now looking at Charles warily, who was aware of how mad he must seem. Juan looked like he wanted to argue again, but Jüri shook his head firmly, and that seemed to shut him up.

“Yes. Please,” he managed to get out, his voice more level this time. He nodded before adding, “Thank you.”

“The bathroom is just back the way we came, first door on the right, there should be a light on in there. I’ll just find a shirt for you,” Mick told him, and Charles didn’t waste any time in leaving the suffocating stares of the three boys, all too aware that the moment he left them, the quietly whispered talk about him continued. 

The bathroom was small, clearly originally meant for staff and not guests, but there was a sink and a mirror, a little grimy but he was able to see his reflection in it anyway. Using the lukewarm water from the tap, he washed the dried blood and dirt off his hands first, trying to ignore how they were still shaking slightly. Splashing the water over his face, the excess dripping to the floor, pooling by his feet, he exhaled deeply through his nose, before letting out the long breath, remembering how his mother had taught him to calm his breathing. The thought of his mother made his heart ache, but he had taught himself over the past month to push thoughts of his parents far from his mind, locking them away somewhere deeper.

The weeks he had spent cooped up with Pierre in their apartment, both of them growing more and more restless as their limited food supply only dwindled, it had become an unspoken rule that they didn’t talk about their parents. They didn’t speculate whether they were alive or not, or where they had gone after they had called and told them to lock the door and not to leave their home under any circumstances. There was no discussing anyone’s whose fate they did not know for sure. Not Stoffel, Pierre’s boyfriend, though Charles knew that was who he was thinking about when he sat up all night, not even pretending to sleep. Not Charles’ friends from school, not even their grandparents back in France, who must have been desperate for some news of their children and grandchildren as they no doubt saw what was happening in London on the news, or read about it in the papers.

“Here, I think this will fit,” in the mirror he saw Mick enter the room, holding a red t-shirt in his hand, looking a little apprehensive about entering the room. Charles couldn’t blame him. He had said no more than one sentence to him, and had spent most of the time shell shocked, lost in his thoughts, looking more than a little crazy.

He took the shirt from him, using his jumper to dry his face before he pulled it off and replaced it with the t-shirt. When he had changed he saw that Mick was still watching him.

“Thank you. Not just for the shirt, but for what you did back in the supermarket, you didn’t have to stay and help me. If you hadn’t…well, thank you,” he said, trying to find the words, but not wanting to think too hard about what would have happened had Mick and his gun not been there.

“It’s alright,” there was a small smile on his face, and Charles felt himself relax a little, “I’m sorry about Juan, he was just scared, I don’t think he meant to hurt you. This whole thing has been tough on him.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” Charles nodded, because even he had seen that the supposed anger in Juan’s eyes was fuelled by fear. An awkward kind of silence fell over them as Charles thumbed the hem of the t-shirt. It might have fit perfectly a month ago, but his and Pierre’s poor rationing meant he hadn’t eaten much in recent weeks, and he was skinnier than he used to be. He looked up suddenly when he heard a slight noise from Mick, and saw he was smiling a little wider.

“Sorry, I just realised I don’t actually know your name,” he explained, “I’m Mick.”

“Charles,” he replied, sticking his hand out because it felt like the right thing to do. This seemed to amuse Mick further, his eyes shining with a mischievous glint that Charles could sense had, at one point, been a permanent look.

“Well, _Charles_ ,” he emphasised his name, and Charles liked the way he managed to perfectly wrap his tongue around the correct pronunciation, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good, Jüri’s making sandwiches, or trying to at least.”

Charles followed him back into the large room, where Juan and Jüri were sat at the table, talking in low voices, which ceased when the two of them re-entered the room. They looked up as Mick and Charles took the two remaining chairs. In front of them on the table were four glasses of water and four plates, upon which sat two very full slices of bread and a single white pill. Charles picked up the pill immediately his eyes darting to look at the three boys sat around him, worry bubbling up inside of him as he dreaded to think what kind of group he had stumbled upon.

“Relax,” Juan laughed at his panicked expression, “They’re just multivitamins.”

“We don’t really know if it works. But we figured we should at least try to not die of scurvy,” Jüri shrugged, popping his into his mouth, washing it down with a swig of water.

“Oh,” Charles said, so relieved that a small chuckle made its way past his lips. He was relieved, firstly at the fact that he hadn’t been drawn into some drug ring, and also that Juan seemed to have calmed down and was a little sorry for the way he’d acted when they’d first met. Quiet settled over the room as the four of them tucked into their sandwiches.

“Thanks for the t-shirt by the way,” Charles said between mouthfuls of food, trying very hard not to wolf down his dinner too quickly, looking first at Juan, then at Jüri, “And the food." 

“S’alright…” Jüri said the words muffled by his very full mouth, the elongated pause at the end of his sentence clearly indicating that he was asking for Charles’ name.

“Charles. My name’s Charles.”

“And you’re French?” Jüri asked, using the tip of his finger to clean up the last crumbs from his plate.

“Yeah, but I moved to London about ten years ago,” he said, trying to savour the last bite of his sandwich, his stomach feeling very satisfied indeed.

“I swear there’s no English people left here,” Juan laughed again before elaborating, “I’m from Ecuador, Jüri’s Estonian, and Mick pretends to be German but he’s really Swiss.”

“I’m German,” Mick nodded firmly when Charles glanced his way. 

“Whatever,” Juan shook his head in mock despair, and Charles got the sense that this was a conversation they often had. He could also tell that they’d known each other for a lot longer than a month.

“How do you all know each other?” he asked, taking a sip of his water.

“School. We all went to the same school here in London, so we were together when this colossal shitstorm went down,” Mick said, pushing his plate away from him, eyes downcast. Like Charles, there was the sense that everything was too real and too raw to confront yet.

“How come you ended up here though?” he asked, looking away from Mick’s whose gaze was still fixed on the table.

“My mum worked here. We were looking for her, I thought she might have stayed here because it was safe, you know, big building, lots of people,” Jüri piped up, and the pained expression on his face told Charles how that plan had turned out before he even vocalised it, “But the place was empty when we got here.”

“How did you get here? If you don’t mind me asking,” he didn’t want to intrude on anything he wasn’t welcome to be a part of. But he was desperate to know how it was for other people, whether it was really as bad as it seemed.

“We were all at school when it went down big style,” Mick began, finally wrenching his gaze away from the table. Charles knew what he meant by that. 

There had been no indication that day of what was to come. Reports had come from abroad of some viral epidemic, but the details were vague, no one expected an outbreak at a hospital in south London, and no one could have predicted the speed with which it spread,

“They told us to go home if we could. Sort of stupid really, sending a bunch of kids out there into the worst of it. But I guess they didn’t really know how bad it was. That’s why we stayed. I was boarding and I couldn’t exactly catch a flight to Switzerland. Juan and Jüri stayed with me, and I guess it was the right thing to do in the end. We watched it all happen on TV, just before that and the telephone service went down. But after a few days, we hadn’t really heard or seen anything, we thought maybe it had blown over, maybe the army had moved in or something. 

They had these big hunting rifles at school, just stashed away with all the sports equipment, God knows why. We knew they were there because…well never mind, that’s a long story. But we took them and we tried to go to Juan’s house first, because his was nearest. But…” 

Mick broke off, staring at his friend who was gripping his hands together so tightly that the bronzed skin of his fingers had turned stark white. Charles could tell that this wasn’t a story that ended well.

“When we got there,” Juan picked up the story where Mick had left off, his voice low, a measured quality to it that told Charles that he was trying very hard not to lose control, “At first I thought no one was there. But they were there, my parents, just they weren’t…they’d already been infected. We had to do it.”

There was no confusion about what ‘it’ was. And Charles felt his heart go out to the boy sat across from him, it was unimaginable to think that the most merciful thing to do would be to shoot your own parents. Even if they were technically already dead. Swallowing the sensation of wanting to throw up, he was grateful when Mick started to speak again, distracting him from the haunted look in Juan’s eyes.

“So we went to Jüri’s next. The place was a mess; the whole street was. Like all the houses had been ransacked, but his mum wasn’t there. So we came here. But it was empty too. So we stayed. There was plenty of food, and there’s still running water and electricity in most of the rooms. We go out every few days to get more food now. It works.”

“What about your family?” Charles asked Mick, trying to keep his voice gentle in case it was a topic he wasn’t supposed to broach.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t reach them no matter how many times I called. And then the phones stopped working. I just don’t know.”

Charles chewed on his lip thoughtfully, wincing when his teeth caught on the cut that was already there. He really didn’t know much about what was going on, but he suspected that there wasn’t that many people who were still in central London, lying low as he and Pierre had been doing. Most had clearly fled as soon as they could. Or tried to at least.

“What about you?” Jüri asked, drawing Charles’ attention to him.

“What about me?”

“What have you been doing since all this happened? I don’t think you’ve been in Sainsbury’s this whole time,” he laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair.

“ _Oh_. Well, I was home with my brother, our parents called us and told us to lock the door, not to leave under any circumstances. They saw what was going on before we had. They both worked on Whitehall, so they um-…”

One of the few images that had been broadcast before they lost transmission was the sight of the Houses of Parliament, burning; people and monsters pouring from the doors, all of them running through Westminster. It was an image engrained in Charles’ brain. Watching as the world descended into chaos; their government going down first. Though he didn’t want to, he could remember the stifling horror he had felt as him and Pierre sat on their sofa, eyes glued to the television screen, knowing that their parents were most likely down there somewhere, drowning in the sea of bodies. His hand flexed subconsciously at the memory of how tightly Pierre had gripped it, neither of them able to speak, hearts in their mouths and tears in their eyes.

“We tried to stay home as long as possible. Trying to ration our food to make it last as long as we could, but I mean, we knew that was never going to last. So I told Pierre, we should just try look next door. Then we wouldn’t have to leave the building, but there would probably be food there. We’d been there a month maybe, and we hadn’t heard anyone. I thought we were the only people in the whole building.”

Charles could hear that he was speeding up as he spoke, the guilt choking him, knowing that it had been him that had suggested it. It had been him who had but them in that position, despite Pierre’s disagreements. He took a deep breath before he continued, avoiding looking at any of the three boys for too long.

“As soon as Pierre broke down the door I knew there was something inside. But Pierre didn’t hear right away, he just walked on in a-and…I didn’t see it, but I could hear it. He told me to run, and I did, I didn’t even wait to see if he followed. He had always said that if we needed to get out we would go to Stoff’s – his boyfriend’s – house, it wasn’t too far from our flat. I think I thought he was right behind me. I don’t know, I just kept running. I thought he’d be there, or he would catch up. But I didn’t even make it that far.”

He stopped, swallowing hard. He hadn’t really considered the idea that Pierre might not have made it out of the apartment next door, that he might not be sat at Stoffel’s house right now, waiting for him. He went to pick up the last piece of his sandwich, giving him something, anything, to do, but he felt like his mouth was stuffed with cotton wool, and he put the bread down again, sure he couldn’t stomach it. Another uncomfortable silence settled over the four of them, as no one knew quite what to say to one another.

“Was the supermarket the first time you’d seen the zombies?” Mick asked, his voice sounding louder than it probably was against the quiet of the room. 

Charles could only nod, not sure that he could speak just yet.

“That explains the hockey stick then,” he said, explaining further when Charles shot him a quizzical look, “You can only kill zombies with a shot to the head, or breaking their neck as well – at least that’s what we think, we haven’t actually tried it. You can fend them off in other ways, but it's a lot harder. But shooting them is the quickest way to actually kill them. The only problem is that the noise of the gun attracts them.”

He didn’t ask how they had found this out, though he could guess.

“The noise?”

“Yeah. If they’re left alone for a while then they’re weak,” Jüri jumped in, seeming grateful for a topic of conversation less sombre than the tales of what they had lost to get to this moment, “We think being around humans is what…fuels them, so to speak. They hear loud noise, they know someone is nearby, and that gives them the strength to go after you. If you keep quiet they’re pretty dormant. But that’s easier said than done.”

That explained why Charles had assumed that there was nobody in their next door neighbour’s apartment, and why all the noise he had made trying to fend off one creature in the supermarket had attracted another, and by the sounds of it, many more.

“And zombies, that’s what you’re calling them?” he asked, looking a little incredulously at them. Somehow it seemed to bizarre to used a term that had, until recently, be exclusively reserved for sci-fi books and crappy horror movies.

“Well, what else would you call them?” Juan asked, piling up their plates, and he had a pretty good point. 

Charles gave up on trying to fall asleep that night, lying curled up on one of the uncomfortable sofas, under an old blanket with a few too many holes in. Eyes burning from exhaustion, he stared at Mick’s back – who had volunteered himself to do the first night shift (they had told him they never slept all at the same time) – as he sat on one of the dining room chairs, a single lamp illuminating one side of his face. He was pouring over a book, though Charles had a strong suspicion that he was reading without really taking in any of the words. The sound of Juan and Jüri’s soft, synchronised breathing filled the room, both of them had falling asleep quickly, like they had gotten used to the weight of heavy dread and fear that Charles hadn’t been able to shake off.

Mick seemed to sense a pair of eyes on him because he turned and met Charles’ gaze, smiling softly when he saw that he was watching him. Charles took encouragement from the smile. Wrapping the thin blanket around his shoulders, he hauled himself off the sofa and approached the table, trying to keep his footsteps light so that he didn’t wake the sleeping boys in the room with them.

“Can’t sleep?” Mick asked him, as Charles took the seat next to him, drawing his knees in to his chest so that his bare feet were lifted off the cold wooden floor.

“No,” he shook his head, and noticing the stack of books Mick had next to him, he reached out his hand and asked, “Can I?”

“Sure.”

The hardcover book he took from the top of the pile was heavy in his hands, and the loose covers and stiff pages told Charles that it was a lot older than any novel he owned. He didn’t even bother to look at the title, opening the first page and letting his tired eyes follow along the words. In complete silence, the two boys read long into the night, as the room grew colder and darker, neither of them saying a word to the other, but feeling less afraid for knowing that they weren’t alone.


End file.
